Page 23 of Casita Casanova
I snort. “That’s an understatement. Who’s the landlord?”
“I don’t know, Ridge. Single woman. Forties. Recently divorced.”
“What else do you know about her?” She could be a serial killer, for all I know. Maybe she likes to lure beautiful men to her home, then she fillets them like a fish.
I gulp, scowling up at the house.
“That’s about it. She’s not the one I’m worried about, so a full background check wasn’t necessary.” The sound of her fingers punching rapidly at the keys fills the silence on the line. The woman types like she’s pissed off at her keyboard. “You need to be on your best behavior, Ridge.”
I roll my eyes. “Of course.”
“I mean it. She’s off limits.”
“I think we both know that’s a bit old for me.” Beth doesn’t need to know about Lex. The lecture that would ensue upon that little reveal? I shudder at the thought.
Beth makes a strangled sound on the other end of the line that could be a laugh. Not sure. “I thought age was just a number.”
“Don’t you wish.” I flash a grin even though she can’t see me.
“Hardly. I have to go.”
“Okay, I—”
“Oh. I almost forgot. Your name is Cas West.”
I raise my eyebrows. “What? Why?” My voice comes out a little too high-pitched for my liking, but Cas? Really?
Is she fucking serious?
“I didn’t want her googlingRidge Westcottand cancelling the reservation before you even arrived.”
Ouch. “Fine.” I end the call and set the phone on the seat beside me while I open the door.
At least Beth didn’t putCassiuson the reservation. That name died with the woman who gave it to me.
The driver of this rolling dumpster clears his throat again.
“You need a fucking cough drop or something?”
He scowls at me. “I have another pickup at the airport. What Ineedis for you to get out.”
I glare at the back of his seat. When I open the door and step out, the first thing I notice is the scent of plants. Or trees. Or something. Mixed in with the salty ocean air is almost a citrus smell, but not quite. A quick glance around tells me there are no lemons or oranges hanging off the trees nearby, so I don’t know what it is. But I like it. I breathe deeply, letting the fresh air fill my lungs. It’s not awful, whatever it is.
The driver extracts my suitcases from the trunk, delivers them to the ground at my feet, shuts the back door, then hurries back to the driver’s side of the car, mumbling under his breath about me. He quickly disappears into the vehicle, then drives away, leaving me standing here in front of this shack, dressed in dark jeans and a sweater that has no fucking business in the Southern California sunshine.
I’m sweating my balls off—and I happen to like my balls.
I pick up my garment bag and tug open the handle of my rolling case. As I reach the gate of the white picket fence, a woman with dark brown curls and oversized black sunglasses appears out of nowhere, popping up from in between some bushes like she was hiding back there, waiting to jump me so she could drag me kicking and screaming into herquaintcottage and feed me to her bird friends.
She’s dressed in baggy,dirtyoveralls and a massive straw hat covers her head, spanning out around her and blocking her face from view. Then she lifts her head and takes off her hat. She swipes a gloved hand across her forehead to get her hair out of her eyes, leaving a smudge of dirt in her wake.
When she looks out to the street and clocks me, her mouth parts on a gasp. “Holy shit,” she whispers. I’m not close enough to hear the words, but I can read them on her lips—and in the way she watches me. The shock and awe never get old.
She gives her head the subtlest of shakes. “Hello. Hi. Can I help you?”
I smirk at her awkwardness. “I’m here to rent your casita?”
She chuckles softly but the sound carries to me on the citrusy breeze. “Are you asking me or telling me?”
